I need a doctor that will write a prescription for your kisses

like CPR for the soul

nothing is more healing

than your lips on mine

I hold the feather’s weight of your artery in my pick-ups,
and tiptoe the tightrope about which life and death abuts.

You’re a 2 AM trauma and we still don’t know your name,
the social worker’s thin lips had mouthed: “estranged.”

I read your anatomy like a text as you flat-line:
your hands turn blue as your heart falls still in mine.

The monitor hums "out of time," but by Epinephrine,
and Grace, your chest resumes its rise.

I leave trauma bay in prayer: for the surviving, not the knife;
for the closeness of my hands in your chest, our joining in this life.

Tonight I see you at the Kroger, buying TV dinners and beer.
I hide behind cereal, admiring the life I’d held dear.

But you look so tired, and my heart breaks for how when you died,
I would’ve sold the shoes off my feet to buy you more time.

I wish you knew how precious was each of your heartbeats,
I wish you the wisdom of my view:

How fragile the stent is where your veins meet.

She doesn’t even know I dance,
rhythm is a dancer,
my heart on my sleeve of armor,
a snake charmer moving faster and faster,

no boa constrictors,
more of a cobra that stays sober with business,
denying these pythons in nylon at all cost,

might be a viper,
might be the remedy for these toxic enemies,
the medicine to defend against the poisons in these city streets,
can’t call I’m all lit it’s a vibe thing and I’m busy vibrating,

go ahead and blame the boy in us for being so boisterous,
and being industrious enough to avoid the poisonous cottonmouths,
can’t trust these snakes these days more Chimera than Ciara,
as the World floods we just keep burning down the house,

in a constant state of affairs,
caught up in the nostalgia of Yesterday’s tomorrows,

we realize that this life we live is ours,
and that’s why we have everything except doubt,
meanwhile they’re still wondering,
who let the dogs out,

so we run in the sun,
swim in the ocean,
and make moments,
so we’ll hopefully be remembered,

even though I’ve got a terrible memory,
and you probably do too,
you know memory is a funny thing,
there are 2 sides to every truth,

well actually there’s 3,
but I don’t think anyone is counting,
because at this point in time,
we’re just happy we’re not drowning,

ship so heavy,
sea so stormy,
we fear we might trip,
and sink into unfounded glory,

so what’s the moral to this story,
what’s the lesson in this song,
I guess it’s to remember I still love you,
even though I know I was wrong,

so when they notice we’re gone,
and ask where we went,
tell them we were here in this moment,
and now we’re gone with the wind,

moving like the hottest God or Goddess,
call me Quetzalcoatl with vocal quotes filled,
within the pages placed into the Mind of our collective history,

let God be Our Witness,
we are Living History,
we are not only everywhere,
we are also everything,

everyone,
that’s ever read the written word,
will understand that this life we live,
is nothing more than a verb,

a fleeting moment of emotional memory,
everything all at once forget everything except I love you,
slash my wrist birth my kids,
no labels no lies, no way only truth,

and the truth is,

She doesn’t even know I dance.

∆ LaLux ∆

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It's not your back that hurts, but the burden.

It's not your eyes that hurt, but injustice.

It's not your head that hurts, it's your thoughts.

Not the throat, but what you don't express or say with anger.

Not the stomach that hurts, but what the soul does not digest.

It's not the liver that hurts, it's the anger.

It's not your heart that hurts, but love.

And it is love itself that contains the most powerful medicine.

- Unknown Author

Stick my veins with pins and needles
Fill my blood with poison
They'll pretend not to notice the ever growing circles under my eyes
Or how my skin get paler with each passing day
Let them pretend
Let them whisper their concerns behind closed doors
Open me wide and fill me with malady
Take up your knife with a close precision
And cut me out of my body
Let my spirit rest in the stars
Take away my earthly pains
With your head held high
And the bittersweet taste of indifference on your lips
(Bitter for me, sweet for you.)
Pour death into my bones,
Don't cease or falter when my eyes flutter shut and my lungs seize up
Let my heart beat slow and my mind go numb.

nobody likes the full name.
the class is known simply as "Cell."
stephen king is just as lazy with his titles.
that fool fears blood.

i was listening to rain washing out the gutters
when our teacher called on me,
asking me to explain in my own words:
"How is molecular transportation so highly organized?"
i posited that organelles are not organized.
they are only civilized:
self-governed by apoptosis and a blueprint of proximal culture,
their manuals inefficient, but honed for cooperation through trial and error.
"I'm predisposed to disagree," he said with a tangible glee.
knowing we all adore his berating honesty.
his question stuck with me.
perhaps because i was working
for the office of sustainability
becoming regularly incapacitated
by the shame and exhaustion of preaching.
leading an uprising through the power of teaching.
i decided the only organized transportation
is an axial conduit to the electorate's war,
always social and hierarchal
because that's what culture is for.
at 19 i was loaded up with a sticky elixir
to be protected from being called a *****.
i will never forget how I spotted lightly for three days
-stopped for one week-
and then for two straight months, it was a downpour.

we are only tearing apart the bitty ants
and there is still blood on our hands.

i believe blood looks best on our hands.
but we were taught to meticulously detach
and to prepare our matching bargains
beneath the atmosphere's volatile dance.
poison is in the body and the air
ready to be bottled and batched.
even when i find my friends
whole and happy in France,
my key stays clotted in the latch.